


I Remember

by Koren M (CyberMathWitch)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberMathWitch/pseuds/Koren%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Perpetuations's prompt: </p>
<p>
  <i>“Clint?” Natasha asks, “Do you remember when Rome was on fire?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Clint remembers – Clint remembers the shrill shriek of a newborn ripped from its mother’s womb and thrusted into the harsh world – Clint remembers the deft hands of an archer, expertly guiding a gold-tipped arrow to its target – Clint remembers silk kimonos and soft changshans – Clint remembers screaming and crying and terror and Rome; Rome burning to the ground – Rome engulfed in hungry flames; Rome destroyed and the wind blowing black ash to the heavens. Clint remembers everything, and he wants to forget it all. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>(aka a reincarnation au in which they live through a hell lot of time periods)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Remember

He remembers scrabbling through the rubble-filled streets, nudging here, shifting there, and it _not-ever-never_ being _enough_. He can still see the flash of Natasha's hair almost indistinguishable from the surrounding flames, trying harder and more in vain to save lives that cannot be saved.

She was not the architect of the conflagration, but he knows she saw it and still feels responsible for the outcome.

He remembers standing on the hill in the aftermath, looking over the soot and smoke and the cooling rubble. And then turning away, walking out into the distance not knowing where else to go and feeling that life as it fades and falls away.

He's not sure which of them is less at ease with that idea. 

******

He remembers the sun and scouring grit, and nudging the caravan ever-so-slightly to the left so their path would intersect with an oasis before the heavens turned sharp sandy winds on their faces. Hunkered down against the side of the camels and thankful for the thin copse of trees he can't help but think of how many other caravans are out there in this storm that he can't do anything for because he's bound to this one life, this one form.

Natasha slips her fingers through his. She thinks she knows the answer but she'll never say the words.

******

Clint remembers war on a battlefield, iron and armor and blood in the air.

He doesn't remember Natasha being there, although he could see her influence all around him. Every time she's not there he wonders if she's finally found the key and left him behind, alone.

******

They don't always find one another. They don't always wake up to what they really are, either. She's not sure which is worse, the times when she's alone because he's no where to be found, or when they're together but he doesn't know who they were.

He still tries to help people.

She wonders what she's like when she doesn't know herself?

She never asks him.

******

She wakes up in the cheap motel outside of Boise, the furthest point they've run to now that Loki's gone and another little part of the world is in ruins. They're side by side on the bed but not touching, not until she reaches out a hand to wrap around his wrist. 

"Clint?" she asks into the darkness. "Do you remember when Rome was burning?"

He rolls over onto his side and she can feel his eyes on her even though she can't quite see them. She knows his gaze is tracing the outline of her profile. 

"I remember," he admits. She knows he doesn't want to. They've talked about this before. They talk about this each time they add a horror to the list, and this life has seen more of that sort of thing than most.

His voice is still raw, colored by the physical pain from a constellation of cuts and bruises and cracked ribs, shaded by being at the mercy of the mind of a madman. 

"I remember," she begins, because maybe she can give him this, "the wildflowers in the spring in Breton. And having that stubborn little goat and a patch of garden and walking over the rocks." It was a good memory, a true memory, one of the small, small handful of them that no one had to die for. They'd grown old together in that cottage, he'd caught cold her final winter at 78 and passed on when it turned to fever, she didn't think she'd lived more than a month more before dying in her sleep.

"I remember."


End file.
